


Provided it tied you down first

by JadeLavellan (Jadestone)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Light BDSM, Master/Slave, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, burn so short you could barely call it a fire, dom!solas, i am incapable of writing anything without at least some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12775659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadestone/pseuds/JadeLavellan
Summary: K!MEME PROMPT: https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/93509.html?thread=365689157#cmt365689157its 3am and i have taken a Lot of nyquil so i guess i'm crossposting this here after all"There is a group of insanely powerful magisters that meet, and the Inquisition needs immediate access to what they're discussing. Brute force won't work here; they need to be subtle. The only way in is to have a member of the Inquisition pose as one of them, and doing so means they'll have to bring along a lover/sex-slave/pet. For whatever reason, the only option is to send the Inquisitor in as the slave, and the only mage powerful enough to pose as a Magister is Solas. It'd look too suspicious if they weren't interacting, right? Especially seeing as they're the newbies..."this isnt even pwp at this point, it's just straight-up shame-filled (on my part) porn. what can i say its NaNoWriMo and i have had to write a Bunch of words this month. this is the most iffy thing ive ever posted content wise and i tagged it but please read the prompt if you're concerned about potential triggers etc. definitely no non-con but there is background dub con.





	1. Chapter 1

            Trevalyan sits at her desk, head resting in her hands.

“And this is the only place we can infiltrate? You’re sure?” she asks without looking up.

            “Unfortunately, yes,” Leliana replies. The spymaster stands in front of her, arms crossed. Dorian and Solas wait awkwardly to the side, not looking at the Inquisitor. Or each other.

            “We know that these magisters are heavily involved with the transport of the corrupted red lyrium into Ferelden and Orlais. We just don’t know _how_. We can’t get to them ourselves—they’re too deeply protected by Tevinter’s magisterium—but if we can cut their supply line in the middle, we may be able to gain valuable time before Corypheus can get more.”

            Trevelyan sighs. “And the _only_ place we can infiltrate is their damn magic sex party.”

            Dorian coughs, embarrassed. “I assure you, Tevinter is many things, but this is—not what I would call _usual_. Even if someone from the Inquisition gets in, the risk that they’ll be discovered is still high. Magisters are magisters—even when you think their guard might be down.”

            They all pause for a moment, pondering.

“You’re right,” Trevelyan admits gravely. “This is too important for us not to address. Or to let anyone handle alone. I have to be the one to go.”

“You’re not a mage,” Dorian tells her bluntly, and she winces. “It can’t be you.”

“And _you’re_ too recognizable in Tevinter—do you think they won’t have heard of the rougue Altus who’s defected to Ferelden? And, no offense Leliana, but Solas is an _elf_. You know how they get treated there. We can’t risk losing either of you.”

Solas does not reply, but turns to gaze out the window across Skyhold instead. Despite his calm expression, Trevelyan still notices the tight set of his jaw. Whatever his feelings about the situation are—he clearly does not want to share them yet.

“Actually,” Leliana says softly, “You wouldn’t be able to go alone either. They will be able to tell you’re not a mage, and even if we could disguise that somehow—well. Both the Magisters are men. To be frank, I doubt they would tell their secrets to a woman so quickly. And the one luxury we do not have is time.”

            The Inquisitor narrows her eyes. The spymaster has more to say, but she does not want to. It isn’t like Leliana to be recalcitrant—not when she’s already decided to finally share her information, at least.

            Trevelyan narrows her eyes. “What aren’t you saying, Leliana?”

            With a regretful twist of her mouth, she relents. “One person won’t be enough. The person posing as the would-be partner has to be a mage, and has to be male—if race is a problem, there are ways to hide that temporarily. But they’ll be expected to… participate. They’ll need a partner to bring with.”

            Trevelyan opens her mouth, then closes it as realization dawns. A partner. To participate in their magical orgy secret meetings. To pose as a sex slave.

            The silence that follows is long, and uncomfortable.

            “Well,” Trevelyan finally says to break it. “I can see why you wanted to meet here in private, anyway.”

            Leliana shrugs. “Dorian and Solas are our only male mages I would trust to have the self control and subtlety to pull this off. If you like, I can find someone to accompany them, if you don’t want to send a member of the Inner Circle. The risk is high, and we cannot afford to lose this information.”

            Trevelyan is already shaking her head. “No,” she tells them. “You’re right. It’s too risky; I can’t send someone else into this. It wouldn’t be right. I have to be the one to go.” She glances up at Leliana. The woman does not reply, but bows her head ever so slightly. She knew it had to be the Inquisitor the moment she discovered the plan, Trevelyan realizes wryly. That’s why she’d insisted on meeting with her in private. No one else can know she’s participating in such a vital mission—not to mention she’s sure none of the Inquisition leaders will want it getting out that she’s out cavorting with high-ranking Tevinter magisters in some sort of sex dungeon. Her reputation is compromised enough.

            “Do Cullen and Josephine know about this?” she asks. Leliana does not respond, and the Inquisitor nods slowly. So. As secret as it gets, then.

            “Dorian,” Trevelyan says, and hesitates. “I can’t let you go. Leliana is right, you’re too recognizable. But I need you to tell me everything you can about these magisters and what to expect.

            Dorian nods, looking more than a little relieved. Trevelyan supposes he knows better than she does what she’s just signed herself up for.

            “Solas…” He is still facing the window. “You don’t have to do this. But if—if you’re willing… I think we have the best chance of success.”

            He finally turns to her, and she is taken aback by the strange expression on his face. Something in his eyes she can’t read. But his voice is level when he responds.

            “Yes,” he says. “You’re right. It must be us.” His gaze locks on hers, and lingers for a moment. For reasons Trevelyan can’t explain—no, she _can_ , she just doesn’t want to try—she reddens, and can’t help glancing away.

            “It’s settled, then,” she says, turning again to Leliana. “I trust this will be handled with the utmost discretion.”

            The spymaster gives a slight bow, a smile twitching up one corner of her mouth. “That, at least, I can assure. I am sorry I do not have any other options to present instead. If any other viable strategies come up, I will let you know right away.”

            Trevelyan nods.

            “When?” Solas asks, his voice level.

            “Three weeks,” Leliana replies. “I shall find suitable reason for you all to be working in the area. No one will suspect it is a cover story.”

            “Alright, then.” The Inquisitor leans back in her chair, combing her hair back from her scalp with both hands to massage her temples. “Dorian, come meet me for lunch tomorrow. We can work out the… necessary details.”

            The others depart. Trevelyan does not watch them leave, does not want to see if Solas looks at her before she goes. The whole conundrum feels so silly she can hardly believe it’s real, or that she’s actually signed herself on to part of the ploy—it’s just too preposterous. She needs a nap. _And_ a drink. Once those are settled, Trevelyan decides as she stands up, she’ll figure out what to do with this particular mess.

 

 

            At the end of the week, no alternative situation has arisen. Leliana has begun coaching her on her Orlaisian accent in earnest—to further avoid suspicion that she is the Inquisitor, although both of them hope she can remain as silent as possible throughout the meeting. Dorian has told her all he can, though his meetings with Solas last longer, she notices.

            She doesn’t seek out Solas herself beyond their usual business. He is always at his desk in the rotunda, surrounded by books and the whispers of people watching above—no way to bring anything up without a dozen other people also noticing. She’d tried, early on in the Inquisition’s arrival to Skyhold, to coax more personal information out of him—his childhood, his family, _anything_. But while he was more than happy to wax poetic about everything he’d observed from the Fade, as soon as she attempted to probe deeper, he was back to smooth, solid politeness—like a stone wall.

            She’d given up. He clearly wasn’t interested. But now… she watches him, as they trek back from the Hinterlands to Skyhold with just three days before they depart for Tevinter. He’s so tall, for an elf. She’d noticed that before. But not how broad his shoulders were. Or the specific way he crooks his fingers while he concentrates on a spell.

            “Fuck,” she mutters to herself, voice muffled by her scarf, and lengthens her stride to take the place at the head of their group. At least from the front, she can’t stare at anyone—and no one will notice when she least wants them to. _What have I gotten myself into?_ She wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo


	2. Chapter 2

            The time that somehow passes second by second feels nothing so regular. In some ways, it feels like she has forced herself through a year of last-minute accent lessons and lectures on Tevinter mannerisms, but in most, the date all too quickly draws near. She finds herself in a horse-drawn carriage, of all things—one of Leliana’s people sitting in the back with her and Solas.

            He has a hood on, and extra silk wound around his forehead, hiding his ears. She’s certain he’s spelled them to look human anyway, at Dorian’s suggestion, despite his obvious distaste for the ruse and the reasons behind it. A thick fur is draped across one of his shoulders; his characteristic jawbone necklace replaced with fine layered chains of gold and silver. Tiny jewels wink among them, brightly lit colors against the dark blues and greens of the robe Leliana had handed them before they’d left, the colors deep and rich in the sunlight through the window. It is so different from his normal handsewn garb that Trevelyan can hardly recognize him—even if the angular cut does accent the broad span of his shoulders _quite_ nicely. The look melds the fashion of both Ferelden and Tevinter—he’s apparently going to be posing as a wealthy Bann from northern Ferelden, and only secretly an apostate. Trevelyan isn’t sure of the specifics, only aware of as much information as a common servant would be. It’s more realistic that way, and safer for them both.

            She, on the other hand, stares grimly down at the handful of fabric the woman across from her has handed her.

            “What else?” she asks, but the lady shrugs.

            “This was all Sister Nightengale gave me for you.”

            Trevelyan sighs. Of course it was. A few panels of sheer fabric, cementing her role as nothing more than a vessel for sexual favors. Setting her jaw, she strips off her travel clothes, Solas politely shifting next to her to avert his gaze. When she pulls on the thin organza garments, they cover barely more than a few handspans of flesh—a thin strip of burgundy cloth wrapped around her chest and neck. It doesn’t take her long to realize in dismay that the skirt is more of a glorified loincloth than anything else—one sheer panel hanging to her shins in the front, and another longer one on the back of her waist. They do not cover enough area to meet at the sides, and the long slits show her legs from ankle to the gold link belt holding the pieces of draping cloth up at her waist. With help from their guard, she pulls on what are unfortunately not short breeches underneath, and are more like skintight silk sheaths for her legs from upper to mid thigh. She can’t see the point in covering all but the important bits, but she hadn’t thought to fight this out with Leliana beforehand, so there’s nothing for it now but to put it on anyway. And if she scowls, she risks ruining the layers and layers of makeup that had been so carefully applied to her face that morning.

            “How’s that?” she asks the woman, running one hand through her hair to fluff up the curls. The carriage is slowing now, starting and stopping every dozen feet. They must be close now.

            “Here,” the guard mutters, reaching over to adjust her top. She tugs it down a little, sending the tops of Trevelyan’s breasts spilling over the edges.

            “Any more and I’m going to fall out,” the Inquisitor mutters. “Aren’t we saving that for _after_ we get inside?”

            Solas chuckles, the closest he has come to speaking within the last hour. The first part of the ride he’d talked business, or trivialities—nothing about their task. Trevelyan feels horrible. She shouldn’t have forced him into this; he clearly hates it.

            Whatever he thinks—it’s too late now. There is a soft knock from the front of the carriage, the driver’s signal. Trevelyan straightens the fabric dangling between her knees, and opens the door.

 

            She exits first, glancing around at their surroundings. The Tevinter air is almost warm against her skin, a pleasant change from the howling and perpetually frozen breezes of Skyhold. But the thin strips of silk and organza don’t offer much protection, and the slight chill in the air is already seeping into her skin. The entrance ahead of them reminds her more of the mouth of cave than anything else—wide, shallow steps descending down into torch-lit darkness.

            But the game has begun, now. She plasters a small smile across her face, hoping it comes off as coy, and reaches back into the black carriage to take Solas’ proffered hand. He steps out, back straight and eyes locked ahead, not even glancing at her. _All part of the play_ , she reminds herself. As he strides forward, she glances down at his heels and follows behind, a portrait of meek obedience.

            She’s not sure what Leliana has sent to prepare for their arrival, but the two guards at the gate merely nod as they approach. Solas casually raises one hand and flicks his wrist, fingers fluttering gently.

            “We are expected,” he tells them, and his voice is—not different, exactly, it is just as deep and lilting as ever, but—his tone rings with the essence of command, so unlike his normal quiet phrasing. She’s only heard him speak with a hint of what now resonates through the air when he’s particularly fed up after a conversation with Sera or Bull.

            Trevelyan forces her thoughts back on track. She stares down at the billowing robe in front of her, not even glancing up as they walk between the guards and descend into the dim hall. She can feel their eyes lingering on her skin, the exposed length of flesh of her stomach and thighs. She’s thankful once the hall curves past their line of vision.

            Solas stops her, here, and reaches into his robe. “This will make it more convincing,” he says, finally looking into her eyes as he hands her a small bundle wrapped in silk. In the flickering torchlight, she unwraps it, the silk sliding through her fingers to reveal a short gold necklace. No, not a necklace, she realizes as she lifts it to inspect—a collar, with a length of chain attached. The setting on the collar for the chain’s attachment is a thick, faceted ruby, gleaming like wet blood in the torchlight. The hinge on the back opens with a delicate flick, and she swallows. This all has become so very _real_.

        But he waited until now to give it to her. It is only a tool to aid them in prying out the magister’s secrets, but he did not let Leliana or the woman or anyone else see it, saving her at least one small scrap of dignity.

            She nods to him in agreement, and lifts the collar to her neck. It _clicks_ closed softly, the metal warm against her throat from the heat of his body. The length of thin gold chain falls from her neck between her breasts, and she slides her fingers along it until she reaches the other end, and hands it to him. He clicks the dangling end of the chain into a loop on a golden ring on his right hand.

            “Remember,” she whispers, “we have to be convincing. Do _whatever_ you need to. I mean it.” She swallows, forcing the words out, hoping he can’t see the burn of her cheeks in the shadows of the hall. “I’ll let you know if… something goes wrong.”

            He stares at her, for a moment too long. Then he nods. “I have not had to act this part in a _long_ time,” he mutters dryly. She suspects she wasn’t supposed to hear him say that, as he has already turned forward to resume their leisurely saunter. The chain dangles nonchalantly from his forefinger, and she follows behind, careful to leave enough slack.

 

            The room they enter is cloudy with smoke—a combination of incense, herbs, and the burning hearths. Trevelyan tries to inspect the crowd anyway, gazing up through her eyelashes so as not to appear to be staring outright. A few figures mill about the room, but most are lounging on cushions and couches spaced into small circles, giving the illusion of privacy. Thick, leafy plants grow from settings directly in the walls, and what must be magefire glows from sconces in the normal orange and red, but also purple and green and blue. Everyone is richly dressed, the fabrics all dark, with kohl lining their eyes. She’d thought the woman was overdoing her makeup that morning, but now Trevelyan feels almost underdressed.

            Solas glances around more obviously, looking bored. Almost lazily, he saunters over to a low unoccupied couch, next to a man in all black seated in a plush chair. Across from Solas is another man in a blue so dark it’s like staring into the night sky, reclining on a cushioned divan. Solas is not watching them, simply gazing around the room as he flops down onto the couch as though he owns the place. The men look at him curiously, but with no hostility.

            But she struggles to pay attention to them—even Solas—because among the handful of elegantly robed men are more than a dozen scantily clad women. Some are draped in layers of expensive silk, but most are wearing even less than she is now. Half are fawning over their companions, feeding them or stroking their hair, or—Trevelyan forces herself to look away, blushing, from one pair quite actively engaged in the corner. So. Dorian really _hadn’t_ been exaggerating after all.

            There are three woman in their somewhat secluded corner of the room as well. One stands behind the man in the chair, holding a tiny smoking braiser on a chain from which a sweet-smelling smoke emits. There is a bitter undertone to the smell, however, that Trevelyan suspects must be some sort of herb. A mild drug, perhaps? The other two accompany the man laying on the divan—his head rests in the lap of one—an elf—who gently massages his neck, while the other sits on the end holding a glass of wine, apparently waiting to hand it to him once he desires.

            But for all that she is exposed, from naval to feet, she feels—invisible. None of them men are watching her, although all turned when Solas entered the room. She might as well be an unusually tall dog. Or a particularly uninteresting bit of jewelry. Trvelyan is surprised to realize she kind of enjoys it. It’s so different from her life now, where everyone is watching her constantly as the Inquisitor—here, she is no one.

            Solas’ slow-wandering gaze finally falls on to the men still studying him.

            “Well,” he announces, his voice syrupy and drawling in a tone Trevelyan has never heard him use before. “If this is Tevinter, I have to say; I like what I see.”

            “You must be the Fereldan,” the man in the chair replies, his tone just as languid. His black robe has gold accents at the throat and cuffs, she notices. “I heard a Bann would be joining us this evening. _Most_ unusual.”

            Trevelyan nearly jumps as a light touch brushes her arm, but stifles her reaction at the last moment. It’s another woman, who silently hands her a silver platter decadently piled with fruits and cheeses. There’s a pitcher of wine on top as well, and a silver goblet. Her arms nearly buckle as she takes it, trying not to look surprised. Of course it’s her job to serve him while here.

            _Invisible_ , she reminds herself. In the exchange, she has missed whatever introductions may have been made, and she curses herself silently for not paying attention. But Solas makes no attempt to move elsewhere in the room, so these must be the men they’re here to watch.

            The load is _heavy_. With one hand, she removes the wine and glass and tries to place them as silently as possible on a low table next to the couch. Balancing the rest of the tray precariously on one arm, Trevelyan plucks up a grape and samples it. It’s usual for the slaves to take the first bite of everything here, apparently—a measure against any poisons fact-acting enough to be difficult to counter. The fruit bursts sweetly between her teeth, though it has been long past grape season back home. The warmer climate helps, she supposes.

            The chain attached to her throat prevents her from moving freely around the room. Carefully, lightly, she steps around the edge of the couch, and lowers herself down next to Solas. He sits with his legs splayed and one arm across the back of the sofa. For a moment, his other hand twitches, as though he would instinctively grab the tray to help her, but with one fluid flick he turns the motion into gesture towards the rest of the room. She curls up against his side, balancing the tray on the cushion behind her while carefully arranging the folds of his robe, mimicking the subservient fawning of the women across from her.

            “Tell me,” he says to the other men, “I selected this establishment for my visit intentionally, of course, but is all of Tevinter so… accepting? I find Fereldan to have grown too… _restrictive_ for my tastes, in recent years.”

            “Oh, you certainly came to the best of the best for your taste of the north,” the man in blue laughs, taking the glass of wine from his attendant and taking a long drink. “But I imagine _anything_ would be better than the barbarism down there,” he finishes after he swallows. Both men watch Solas closely, she notes.

            “Oh, most of it, certainly,” Solas agrees. “But a man’s land is _his_ , you understand. Pay your taxes on time—as extortative as they are—and the King turns a blind eye to whatever may go on inside well paid for walls.” He rests a hand on Trevelyan’s thigh possessively as he speaks. “Or that’s how things _used_ to be,” he finishes darkly. Trevelyan is transfixed. Solas’ transformation into a spoiled noble is total—the haughty gleam in his eye, the slight pout of his lips as he speaks phrases completely contrary to his usual nature. She’d never have guessed him for an actor—too caught up in his own head to be mimicking others.

            “Ahh,” the man in black—he _must_ be Urathus, she thinks, based on the sketches Leliana showed her before they left. “I understand completely. So you’re looking to relocate, then?”

            Solas shrugs, and Trevelyan reaches back to daintily select a slice of apple. She brings it to his lips, and he parts them willingly, chewing the fruit unhurriedly. She hopes the delay gives him enough time to respond appropriately when he’s done.

            His hand still rests on her leg. His skin is warmer than she would have expected, the heat of him soaking into her chilled skin. The room is quite comfortable for its berobed patrons, and is warmer still than it had been outdoors, but the air is still cool to her flesh, unused to being bared for so long. Trevelyan is _painfully_ aware of just how little she has on, with his hand halfway up her thigh. Standing up again is sure to be even more of an exposure, she realizes.

            “I’m considering it,” he finally tells Urathus and the other. Vardonis, she guesses. “At the very least, there are certain… belongings I should like to remove for safekeeping, until the current nonsense settles down.”

            Trevelyan feeds him a slice of cheese, next. Her fingers brush against his lips, and they must be even warmer than his hands. Why else would she tingle so much at the brief contact?

            The man on the divan opens his mouth as though to ask something more, but before he can, Solas looks at her for the first time since they entered.

            “Wine, pet,” he commands. Her eyes widen ever-so-slightly in surprise, though her face remains placid otherwise. She can’t be imagining the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, can she? For all his bitter comments earlier—is he _enjoying_ this?

            Well, he’s not the one wearing naught but three handkerchiefs, so perhaps he is. But she knows what he means. They’re inquiring too much about _him_ when the conversation needs to be about _them_. The more he talks, the more holes they can pick out in his story. She’s here as an extra set of ears, and as a distraction. Time to distract.

            Trevelyan stretches one leg out at a time, slowly pulling herself off the cushions, letting one arm trail from Solas’ shoulder down his side to his knee as she pulls away. The end of the chain still hangs loosely between his fingers, cold where it falls on her skin. There’s plenty to get her even a dozen steps away from him, but she can’t risk it tangling—she has to pretend to be used to this.

            Trevelyan walks the four paces to the end of the couch, throwing an extra bit of swing into every step so that the fluttering fabric of her not-so-much a skirt sways with the motion of her walk. Vardonis hasn’t asked his next question, and she can see Urathus staring at her from the corner of her vision. She bends over a fair deal more than necessary to decant some of the wine into the goblet, trying not to blush as she puts her nearly bare ass on show for these strangers.

            _This is fine_ , she thinks to herself. _None of them know who you are, except Solas. And_ he _knows you’re acting. Play the part_.

            Besides. She has to admit, she kind of enjoys the attention. At least they’re not looking at her like she’s either the spirit of their goddess reborn, or leading them directly into hell itself.

            She finishes pouring, and stands up again, just as slowly. Solas is watching her, still with that tiny smile on his remarkably full lips. She walks back, and instead of sliding next to him, lifts one leg over his own splayed knees, and drops herself gently onto his lap, staring directly into his eyes.

            She raises the cup of dark, fragrant liquid to his lips, and he sips from it, not breaking her gaze.

            “Good girl,” he tells her, not loud but not too quietly for the other men to miss. He also gives her the barest of nods, so subtle she can’t be sure it wasn’t her imagination. But she knows what he means. The men have stopped asking questions of him. He can turn the conversation back around to them.

            He brings one hand up to her waist, and she shifts slightly to the side, no longer blocking his view of the others, or theirs of him.

            “Forgive me,” he says, graciously. “I don’t believe I recognize your names. Tell me, what do you do here in this _lovely_ country?”

            Urathus laughs. Trevelyan can’t quite see him now that her back is turned, but if she twists her head ever so slightly, she can watch the woman behind him through her cascade of curls. The lady has set down the smoking pot, her hands now trailing along the magister’s shoulders, fingertips rubbing the skin of his neck beneath his robe.

            “We don’t _do_. We’re magisters. We simply _are_. Our business is whatever we feel like at the moment.”

            “Indeed,” Vardonis agrees. “Where the law might be concerned—we are not. It must be _quite_ different from the way those barbarians handle things down south.”

            “Oh, not so much as you’d expect,” Solas says breezily, flicking one wrist dismissively. The other hand squeezes her waist, and Trevelyan lifts the cup again for him to take another drink. “For those foolish enough to end up in the circles, perhaps. But nobility—however far back and forgotten the lineage may be—opens up certain… privileges.” His hand strokes down from her waist, around her hip. The touch of his fingers sends a shiver down her spine she can do nothing to hide, and his eyes flash with something she can’t read in response. She can only sit there, obedient.

            “And what _do_ you feel like, now?” Solas asks them, as his hand dips lower, sliding behind the thin fabric to grip her bare buttock between his fingers. “For business, I mean.”

            _Keep them distracted._ Trevelyan reaches down to pick up another grape, turning her head so the men can watch her place it delicately between her own lips. Vardonis is sitting up now, the woman who had been massaging his neck now with her own head dipped low over his shoulder, her tongue working against his skin. Trevelyan turns back to Solas, and leans down, bringing her own mouth to his.

            His tongue brushes lightly against her lip as he takes the fruit, his hand on her ass tightening its grip almost imperceptibly. She draws back, trying not to breathe faster. Her heart his hammering, and there is a heat spreading through her stomach that has nothing to do with the warmth of his skin, despite the cool air in the room.

            _Nerves,_ she tries to tell herself. _Just don’t want to get caught_. Nothing at all to do with the kiss.

            “Hmm,” Urathus hums appreciatively. “Depends on the day. A bit of magic for those unfortunate enough to be born blind to it. A bit of moving things to and from Tevinter.”

            Trevelyan copies the other woman, lowering her head to press her lips against the side of Solas’ neck, raising the hand not holding a goblet of wine to draw back the fabric at his throat. She is careful not to disturb the silk wound across his ears. She kisses his skin, licking and nibbling her way down to his collarbone while he asks the men another question. His vocal cords vibrate under her tongue as he speaks, and she can’t hear the question over the roar of blood in her ears. Urathus answers, but she is too absorbed in the texture of Solas’ skin. The fur over his shoulder presses against her stomach, the texture rougher than she would have expected from something that looked so soft.

            But—she let herself get too distracted. As her teeth graze across the hollow of his throat, sucking at the patch of bare skin, her other hand tilts more than she realized. Drops of wine splash over the edge, spilling onto the lose fabric of the silk robe where it bunches on the couch.

            Ice sweeps down her spine. One of the men behind her gives a small _tut-tut_ of disapproval as she freezes for a moment, then lifts her head to look up at Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah


	3. Chapter 3

_Fuck_ , _fuck, fuck,_ she curses silently to herself. Sloppy. They can afford _no_ suspicion here.

            “That was _silk_ , pet,” Solas scolds coldly, in a low voice. “And now it’s stained. Ruined.”

            “I’m sorry,” Trevelyan replies breathlessly, staring at his face. He looks irritated, probably at her blunder rather than the robe, but also, somehow—smug. He plucks the silver cup from her hand, and draining most of it before dropping it to the marble floor. What little liquid remains splatters onto the dark stone.

            “I’m sorry, _what?”_ he growls.

            “I’m sorry… _Master_ ,” she guesses frantically, rolling her practiced accent around the words.

            “That’s more like it,” he replies. “You know I’ll have to punish you for this. The cloth was _expensive_. On your knees.”

            Trevelyan furrows her brow slightly in confusion. But he pulls her leg from where his hand still rests under her skirt, and she follows his motions as best she can. She puts one foot onto the floor to leave the couch, but he grabs her shoulders with his other hand instead, twisting her sideways and down before she can register what’s happening.

            She’s on hands and knees now across his lap, facing the pillows and the arm of the couch they still rest on. The hand on the back of her thigh releases, but she’s thoroughly mixed up now, unsure of what he’s trying to do. His other hand slides from her shoulders up into her mass of curls, caressing the back of her neck briefly before seizing a handful of her hair. He does not pull at it, but it must look like he is.

            Then there is a firm, loud _slap_ , as his open palm strikes her bared ass.

            Trevelyan gives a small gasp of surprise, rocking forward slightly at the impact. He didn’t hit her _hard_ , she’s suffered far, _far_ worse blows in battle almost every day since the breach—but shock fuels her reaction. Another blow falls, and she inhales again. She can’t fault him, though, because it’s working—Vardonis is staring at _her_ again, licking his lips. With the next _smack_ , Trvelyan lets a soft, breathy moan escape her lips, and Solas’ fingers tighten in her hair. The warm spot in the pit of her stomach grows, spreading lower. She groans louder on the next spank, letting a bit of tremor into the noise.

            “Are you sorry, now?” Solas asks, his voice soft, but with a snarl behind it she’s unused to hearing from his usually mild-mannered demeanor. But he slaps her ass again, rocking her forward on her knees.

            “Yes, _Master_ ,” she whimpers again, shaping her lips into an _o_ around the words as he spanks her one more time, harder than before, and she gives a startled cry. _Whatever you need to do_ , she’d told him. She meant it when she said it. She just didn’t realize how _into_ it she was going to be.

            “What are you going to do to make up for it, pet?” _Smack_. Heat blossoms between her legs at the touch, and her moan of pain and pleasure is only slightly exaggerated. His hand in her hair keeps her head lifted, but she stops holding the position herself, liking the feel of him pulling her up by the curls more than she would have admitted.

            “ _Anything_ you want, Master.”

            _Smack_. She can feel her ass and thighs jiggling after each blow. His slaps fall so that they are more loud than painful, but the repeated spanking sends sparks over her delicate skin anyway.

            But the next time his hand falls, it is gentle, lightly stroking her tingling rear and giving the plump flesh another firm squeeze. From this angle, he can probably see more than just her ass, she realizes. Can he tell how turned on she is from his angle? There’s not enough fabric to keep her hidden if this continues much longer; she can already feel herself growing wet. It’s too late for that kind of thinking now, though. And any embarrassment she might have otherwise felt has been replaced with a powerful and overwhelming desire. Whatever role Solas is playing, the tricks he’s using—she can’t help but be immensely, intensely aroused by it.

            “Now,” he says, pulling on the chain connected to her neck until she’s in a kneeling position next to him. “Lick up the rest, and I’ll consider your apology accepted.”

            She doesn’t care that it seems an extreme reaction to just a few drops of wine. She doesn’t even care that the other men are watching hungrily themselves. Solas clearly has their infiltration completely under control, and all she’s tried to do has only made things worse each time. He’s the one in charge now, fully.

            And she likes it.

            Trevelyan steps off the couch and sinks to her knees on the floor, leaning down onto her elbows on the marble. Without protest, she sticks her tongue as far out of her mouth as she can, and slowly drags it across the floor in a long lapping motion, her ass still in the air. The ground is clean, but there is still dust in her mouth, tiny grains of sand that crunch in her teeth. The wine droplets soak into her tongue, tiny bursts of flavor. She licks up the next one, raising her upper body as she completes the motion, he breasts bouncing beneath the sheer cloth, nipples hardening at the slight abrasion. She glances at Vardonis as she lowers herself for the next lick, but her breath catches as his eyes lock on hers, a sadistic smile on his face. One of his hands has vanished into the waist of his robe, the fabric moving slightly as he watches her at the degrading task. She drops her eyes and continues to lick up the rest, careful not to rush.

            Solas, however, proceeds to ignore her as soon as she bends down on the floor.

            “How hard would it be to transfer one’s assets to Tevinter, do you suppose?” he inquires. “As a landed noble, it would be impossible to move my entire estate. But a second property, perhaps a winter house in warmer climates as I deal with an, ah, health issue…”

            “Hmm.” Urathus drums his fingers against his wine goblet. “Would it not be suspicious, transferring your funds into the very country your peers despise? Surly they would seize such assets from you, rather then allow them to drain out of their own country.”

            “Perhaps if you instead made purchases, for significantly more than the object’s value,” Vardonis suggests. “A partner on the inside, if you will. Then you’ll only look crazy, rather than traitorous.”

            Trevelyan finishes, and sits back on her heels as she wipes the flecks of spit from her mouth. She can’t help but notice that one of the women at Vardonis’ side has taken over, her hand moving rhythmically between his legs, his robe now splayed open to show the flesh of his stomach.

            Solas frowns. “I have no wish to appear a fool. They _know_ I am not one.” He switches his attention to her. “Good girl. I’ve decided to forgive you, for now. Stay down there until I need you again.”

            “Now, now,” Urathus interjects. “There’s no need to deprive yourself because of one slave’s poor behavior. Here—allow mine to show you a _real_ Tevinter welcome.”

            The woman who had been caressing his neck steps out from behind his chair, sauntering towards Solas. Her hair is dark, as are her kohl-rimmed eyes. The few strips of cloth around her own body are held in place by intricate black ropework, the knots circling each full, pointed breast in a way that more emphasizes than obscures them. She smiles warmly at Solas, leaning down to reach for him, but he catches her wrist before she can touch him.

            Trevelyan is momentarily afraid that he’s going to offend their target with a refusal. The subtleties of his body language only she knows well enough to read are plain—the slight tensing of his jaw, the fist his other hand makes on the back of the couch: he has no interest in the woman. Trevelayn finds herself relieved, an irrational mix of jealousy and possessiveness rising in her chest. But they have to ingratiate themselves with Urathus any way possible.

            “Don’t be fooled,” Solas chuckles, a wry grin spreading across his face. “My pet knows what I like.” He turns his eyes back on Trevelyan, who still kneels on the floor, the gold chain still draped between them. “Go on, now,” he tells Urathus’ slave. “I prefer to watch, first.”

            The Inquisitor smiles coquettishly, extending a hand. The woman’s eyebrows raise slightly, but she smiles back, taking Trevelyan’s proffered grip. Urathus laughs loudly as she pulls the woman onto the floor next to her, sliding her own body closer across the slick stone.

            Up to this point pure adrenaline has been propelling her—worry for their mission, for Solas’ and her own safety, fear of offending an entire room full of mages who happen to hate their organization and everything she currently stands for. But now, she falters, momentarily at a loss. Should she kiss the lady? She’s never had sex with a woman before. What do they expect from her?

            The dark haired woman, however, clearly knows what she’s doing. She leans in and brings her lips to Trevelyan’s own, her tongue sliding along her lower lip. Trevelyan closes her eyes and parts her mouth, darting her own tongue forward before pulling back again. She moves to the other woman’s neck, sucking and nipping at her the way she had been with Solas before she spilled the wine.

            But now, both her hands are free—and the other woman moans as she drags her fingernails along the bottom edge of the ropes along her sides. It’s clearly mostly a performance for the benefit of the mages. But the other woman slides a hand down the fabric of her top, exposing one of her breasts and squeezing it. Trevelayn gasps at the unexpected touch, but warmth floods her again, her eyes fluttering open. But she doesn’t look at Urathus or Vardonis this time. She stares at Solas, his arms spread across the back of the couch, his knees equally splayed. He grins at her in obvious pleasure, and her heart skips a beat as she realizes he’s _not_ faking this—at least, not his attraction to her, and seeing her like this. Here, where no one else can see them except their secret enemy, he has laid his feelings more bare than he ever had at Haven or Skyhold.

            She doesn’t want him to stop watching, even as he begins to continue the conversation.

            “Still, your idea has merit. But I would need to be buying something convincing. Perhaps something with cultural value, to disguise the overpayment. It need not be _actual_ relics, of course, but a convincing forgery bought in the name of historical preservation—now, that might go unnoticed.”

            Trevelyan trails her fingers up the woman’s stomach, cupping both her breasts in her palms. She doesn’t’ t have time to figure out the knots holding the fabric triangles in place, but she massages the woman through it, her thumbs sliding under the edge to brush at her nipples.

            Solas is still staring at her, but she breaks his gaze to peek at Urathus’ and Vardonis’ reactions. They are exchanging a meaningful glance, clearly considering something together, neither of them paying any mind to the now half-naked woman straddling Vardonis’ lap. Solas does not push them further, though, at least yet.

            The woman—Trevelyan wishes she knew her name, but it would be entirely inappropriate to ask—rises slightly on her knees, pressing her body against Trevelyan, who gasps as she slides onto her lap, their bare flesh sliding together. Trevelyan lifts her face to kiss her again, the sweet smell of her skin reminding her of soft spring flowers. She releases her breasts to caress her hands down the woman’s’ sides as they embrace, tugging upwards as they graze over her hipbones. She gets the idea, breaking the kiss to begin slowly grinding up and down against the Inquisitor’s thigh, throwing her head back in pleasure as she does. Trevelyan leans forward to lick her collarbone, kissing her way down to one of her breasts. She fumbles with one hand to psuh the fabric to the side, and presses her lips closer, opening her mouth to take in some of the ample flesh. She’s still just as aroused as before, but she doesn’t think it’s whatever _this_ is—it’s the fact that Solas is still watching her. She flicks her tongue against the woman’s nipple, imagining that it’s _him_ touching _her_ instead, the fire in her belly growing.

            “You know, there’s many who have exactly the opposite problem,” Vardonis says, even as his slave pulls open the last fastenings on his robe. “Importing items to Tevinter is simple. Ferelden is the one with all the rules on what can and can’t be brought in.”

            The woman in front of her stops her movements, responding to a signal or call Trevelyan hasn’t noticed. She slides away, and turns back to Urathus, as though the Inquisitor no longer exists. She crawls the few paces to where her master sits, beginning to kiss her way up his foot and calf.

            As the Inquisitor’s gaze follows her, she looks up at Urathus, who meets her gaze and smiles lasciviously. Then her eyes flick lower, and even despite all she’s seen today, her lips part with a soft surprised gasp to see his robe is open to display his currently hard cock. He grasps it with one large hand, his thumb rubbing slowly back and forth across the already glistening tip.

            “I think your slave wants to play, Bann,” he says with a grin. “Wher _ever_ did you find one so charmingly innocent? Perhaps Ferelden has more to it than I suspected.”

            Vardonis grunts in agreement—no, she realizes as she flicks her gaze towards him, he’s grunting in pleasure as he thrusts into the woman now lying below him on the settee, her legs wrapped around his hips. The other accompanying him is pressing her now equally naked body against his back and grinding with the rhythm of his hips, running her hands around his back and chest.

            Solas laughs. “What can I say? In some matters, it pays to be… selective.”

            “Well, if you’re still in the mood to watch...” Urathus runs his hand up and down his shaft, still grinning at her blush. He hasn’t even acknowledged his own slave, now working her mouth up past his knee.

            Trevelyan bites her tongue, hard, to stop her lips from curling back in disgust. She has no interest in the man or his companion—she’s here for his secrets, nothing more. Except, somehow, now she _wants_ a whole lot more than she planned on… but not from _him_.

            She drops her gaze to the floor, pretending to be abashed, looking up at Solas through her eyelashes. She’s startled to realize that he has let his robe fall open to match the other two’s casual appearance, the fine musculature of his bare chest vanishing into tightly laced trousers, where… _oh_. The front bulges conspicuously, although his own elbows are still propped up along the back of the couch. She forces her gaze upwards. The veins in his neck stand out tensely, but his voice is as even and rough as before.

            “My apologies, Urathus, but she knows her duties.” He lifts his hand from the backrest, tugging at the chain attached to her throat. “Perhaps next time…”

            They still don’t have the information about the lyrium smuggling routes. If they can’t get it now, _will_ they have to come back again? She hadn’t even considered that possibility. But he has stepped in to save her now, at least, and she is grateful for it.

            She forces herself to look back to Urathus, and licks her lips. Better to leave him wanting to see them again, just in case. His slave has made it past his thigh, now, and he lets go of himself so she can take him into her mouth. The woman begins sucking him furiously, and Trevelyan realizes that now she is the only one not currently actively engaged. Solas tugs the chain again, sharper than before, and she copies the other woman’s earlier behavior and crawls towards, him, head bowed as though in submission.

            When she reaches the couch, she looks up at him, placing one hand tentatively on his knee. Everything else this evening has been his lead—she’s barely touched him herself. But now that she reaches for him, the tension in his shoulders fades, even though they are still within Urathus’ view. She gazes at him, questioning with her eyes—hoping he can read the message through her own overwhelming desire.

            “That’s right, pet,” he murmurs, voice too low for the others to hear. He takes her hand in his own, and moves it up his thigh until her palm is pressed against the bulge in his pants, his own hand pushing the back of hers down. She fingers his shaft through the fabric, gripping it as she begins to undo the laces with her other hand. He removes his fingers and simply watches her, smiling as she fumbles to pull the thin cord away from the fabric.

            One of her breasts is still fully exposed, and as she tears out the last of the lacing, Solas lazily tugs the fabric down her side to bare the other. She hardly notices as the fabric finally falls open and his cock springs free, fully erect. She’s not sure what she expected, but her eyebrows rise at its size. She should have guessed, given how much taller and more broad-shouldered Solas is than most of the—admittedly few—men she’s been with already.

            She takes him with one hand, slowly sliding her fingers down his shaft. He inhales sharply at the touch—how long had he been sitting here, hard, as he watched her? Trevelyan knows they’re here with a purpose but she’s finding it increasingly hard to care. All she wants now is to taste him; to experience what he seemed so uninterested in before. She curves her neck down, shifting her fingers so she can lick him from base to tip. She is slow, deliberate, her tongue swirling around his tip for a moment before she lowers her mouth over him.


	4. Chapter 4

            Solas tenses again, his knees squeezing against her sides as she begins to bob her head up and down. She drags her tongue along the underside of his cock as she sucks, her lips sliding up and down, lubricated by saliva and the fluids already starting to leak from its tip.

            She feels fingers burrow into her hair, fisting tightly in the mass. She pulls against him slightly, enjoying the tingle in her scalp as his dick slides deeper into her mouth, hitting the back of her tongue.

            Vardonis says something, but she doesn’t catch the words over the roar of blood in her ears and her complete absorption in her task. But Solas replies, sounding only slightly more breathless than before.

            “Into Ferelden? No, not at all. At least, not for me. It’s only foreign merchants who must undergo such scrutiny.”

            If he’s still coherent, she must not be doing a good enough job. She quickens her pace slightly, forcing her mouth to slide just a bit farther down, stopping only just before the urge to gag kicks in. She is rewarded with a shuddering tug at her hair, his next exhale a soft _hiss_ through his teeth. Now _he’s_ the one who’ll have to play cool while everyone watches him, she thinks victoriously. Followed immediately by the thought _Ah, shit,_ as she considers that perhaps she should not be intentionally sabotaging his negotiation attempts.

            She immediately slows, placing her hands on his thighs and letting up the pressure of her lips, but his fingers curve around her scalp, forcing her head back down. She nearly chokes in surprise as his hips buck up an inch to meet her, forcing his cock further into her mouth before slowly withdrawing again.

            “Isn’t that what you wanted?” He whispers—he must be talking to her, now, not them; his voice almost a snarl under his heavy pants, before thrusting up into her mouth again. Trevelyan closes her eyes, stifling a gag as the end of his member nearly enters her throat. His hands hold her firmly in place, so she can only drag the tip of her tongue along his shaft again as he pulls back.

            “You know, Vardonis and I are in the business of exports ourselves,” Urathus replies casually. “I thought high tariffs were customary for any imported good.”

            Solas laughs, despite the hard tautness of his thighs beneath her hands. She grips him tightly, squeezing, despite her resolution not to interfere. Not that _he_ seems to think it much of an inconvenience.

            “For foreigners? It’s practically extortion. Or the common folk, I suppose. Things are quite different for us landed nobility.” He presses forward again, and she closes her mouth tighter, flickering her tongue from side to side along the tip of his cock. His breath hitches for a moment, a slightly too-long pause in the conversation “All those ancient contracts when whatever ancestors agreed to pledge fealty to the fools in Denerim—turns out they’re very hard to alter these days, including the part about taxed goods,” he manages to continue, slightly breathless.

            “You don’t say,” drawls Vardonis, who sounds lazy and winded. “Perhaps we could both be of use to each other, then. Don’t you agree, Urathus?”

            “Hmmm.” His business partner’s grunt is noncommittal, clearly reluctant to tie himself to a stranger just yet.

            Trevelyan can’t help crying out as Solas drives into her again, even farther than before. Her throat constricts as she gags, but he pulls back at the last moment, before it becomes truly uncomfortable, pulling her head up again. Her noises are muffled by his flesh, but still loud enough to be heard. She wraps her fingers around his hips, clinging to him, struggling to push her mouth down over his cock again against his tight grip on her head. Her clit throbs, the desire to reach down and touch herself nearly overwhelming her desire to be touching him. She squeezes her legs together in an effort to quench her arousal, the thin silk along her thighs already damp.

            Solas shifts backwards, pulling himself almost entirely out of her mouth. She sucks at the hard head of his dick, fondling it with both tongue and lips.

            “Do you want me?” he whispers, the greater conversation apparently abandoned for now. She can’t see what the other men are doing, but they are doubtless similarly engaged.

            Trevelyan groans in reply, pressing her chest against the edge of the couch, her breasts pooling on the cushion between his knees.

            “How badly?” His voice is hot and heavy, a hint of wildness seeping through his perfect control. He pulls her hair back so that her head and mouth pull free.

            “ _Please,_ ” she begs him. “I want you, I have for _months_ —”

            “Good girl,” he croons, his other hand combing stray hairs back from her forehead as she pants. “Prove it.”

            His hands no longer restrain her, and she begins sucking him in earnest now. One of her hands joins her mouth on his shaft, and with the other she slowly begins to massage his balls, cupping them to press circles against where they meet the skin behind. She spends a few moments focused solely on the tip of his cock before resuming her previous vigorous pace, her breasts bouncing against the cushions with the rapid up-and-down motion. There is something irresistibly erotic about the dichotomy of their states of dress: her, disheveled and her already scant clothing almost stripped away entirely; while he is still mostly in full noble regalia. She glances up at him as she works, taking in the sight of the dark fur against the rich colors of his clothing, a pale sliver of flesh revealed by the gap in the dark fabric. His jewelry glitters in the dim and smoke of the room, and he stares down at her hungrily, taking evident pleasure in watching her lips slide over and down his cock.

            It is another minute before he shows the effects of her work, his steady breathing devolving into ragged gasps. He begins to press his hips upwards again, in jerky, frantic motions. She speeds up her pace to match, but continues the rhythmic fondling and sucking she’s been working up to.

            “Yes,” Solas hisses, his voice still ragged. “Don’t stop—“

            His other hand joins his first in her hair, and he presses her down farther and farther. Her gagging has stilled mostly with the persistent thrusts, but he does not relent now, as he must feel her throat constricting before his cock as he pushes in and out, in and out, fucking her mouth relentlessly.            

            With a last gasp he comes, both hands pulling sharply at fistfuls of her hair while he holds her over his jerking lap. She struggles to swallow the hot fluid, tongue still eagerly sliding against his shaft even as it spurts forth. When the last twitching of his orgasm has abated, and his fingers slowly loosen, Trevelyan pulls back, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

            She keeps her head lowered, not meeting his eyes and blushing furiously. Here, now—a line has been crossed. He _has_ to know she’s not just acting, not after that display. She doesn’t know what that will mean for them when this is over. But for now, she’s still so goddamn _horny_.

            Her hand slides down her stomach, slipping behind the thin strip of fabric at her front. The end is tangled in her knees, but it doesn’t matter. She slides her forefinger between her wet folds, slowly working it back and forth to satiate some of her prolonged arousal.

            She hears another soft _hiss_ of breath as he inhales sharply. As her hand coaxes forth the first flutterings of pleasure, there is a sharp tug at her neck, raising her face. She stares into Solas’ eyes as he holds the metal line taut, still fondling herself. With a start, she realizes that the heavy blaze in his stare is more than just acting on his part, either—he’s fallen right over the edge with her, despite all his rebuffs to her advances in Skyhold. She wouldn’t have guessed that it’d be complete dominance that finally sparked his interest in her, but she’s beginning to suspect she didn’t know him quite as well as she thought she had.

            She doesn’t care. He pulls the chain again, toppling her off balance so she has to throw out both arms to catch herself, and then crawl-stumble back to his feet as he drags her forward.

            “I didn’t tell you to touch yourself,” he murmurs. “You belong to _me_ now. _Every_ part of you, to do with as I wish…”

            “Yes, Master,” Trevelyan replies, running her tongue across her lips as she looks up at him, waiting to see what he will do.

            But—his gaze shifts sideways, just for an instant. She hears a loud, satisfied grunt, and then Urathus sighs loudly in ecstasy. Whatever brief moment they had had unobserved has passed, and the mission is once more in play. She’s half surprised—and fully pleased—to realize that Solas looks irritated, not relieved.

            With one arm, he pulls her from the floor onto the couch, settling her in front of him, her back pressed against his chest. The flimsy skirt is crumpled and tangled oddly, so her bare ass pushes up against his crotch. She can feel his spent cock still untucked atop his smooth silk breeches.

            “Like I said,” he whispers in her ear, his long fingers wrapped around the slight jut of her hipbones. “To do with as I wish. Luckily for you…” One of his hands slips forwards, beneath the tangle that was the front of her garb. He brushes it aside, and then rubs tantalizing circles on the inside of her thigh, his touch so light as to be almost ticklish. “I’m in a giving mood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and finally there they go


	5. Chapter 5

            She moans, squeezing her legs together around his wrist, but he grabs her knee with his free hand to force her to splay open, displaying everything for the magisters she now faces to see.

            Urathus has not bothered to close his robe again, bare from his neck past his now-flaccid cock to his muscular calves. The woman she’d kissed sits at his feet, massaging them. He seems uninterested in her now that he is spent. Vardonis, on the other hand, is apparently on round two, the woman he hadn’t been fucking before now straddling his lap, her hands gripping his shoulders as she bounces atop him, his cock alternately visible and not as she slides up and down his shaft.

            “Let’s put on a show, pet,” he murmurs, too soft for the others to hear. Then, in a normal volume, he addresses the magisters.

            “If what you say is true, a partnership might prove quite profitable to both sides. I would get to move valuable assets across the border without scrutiny, not to mention a greater degree of freedom, and whoever helped me…” Trevelyan can’t see his face from this angle, but she can hear the smile in his voice. “Would be able to move their own property across the border with much less scrutiny. How many do you suppose might be interested in just such a deal?”

            So—he’s opening the negotiations for real, now, then. Trevelyan prays his forward approach will pay off rather than drive their targets away—it _has_ to be them, and their corrupted lyrium supply, not some other spoiled rich magister avoiding tariffs on his drugs or other poisons. Then Trevelyan whimpers aloud and her worry is forgotten as Solas finally drifts his hand farther forward, teasing her folds apart and dragging one finger from bottom to top, ending with a light brush against the sensitive nub near the top of her sex.

            His scheme works.

            “You know,” Vardonis begins thoughtfully, despite the woman still sliding up and down his cock, “I suspect we ourselves could make use of just such an arrangement.”

            “Oh?” Solas asks, and presses his finger harder against her clit. She moans louder this time, turning her head to muffle the cry into his shoulder as his finger draws tight circles of pleasure across her soaking flesh. “Now that could prove quite convenient.”

            “I don’t know,” Urathus replies slowly. “Aren’t mages all locked up in Ferelden? However did you manage to not only avoid them, but also inherit a title? Surely you’re under watch…”

            She can’t see the others with her face buried in his shoulder, teeth biting the fabric of his robe. He chuckles, the low vibration coursing down her spine through his chest.

            “Oh, if they are stupid, or their families afraid, even nobles can be taken into the Circles. But given proper training, magic is not so dangerous as the Chantry would have us believe. Or at least, the Chantry I’m familiar with.”

            “So your parents hired someone to teach you?”

            “Something like that.” The pressure of his fingers increases, and Trevelyan squeezes her legs again involuntarily. The hand gripping her knee forces her still, tightening its grip on her thigh. She hooks her feet around his calves instead, and he slowly releases her leg, sliding his hand up her thigh instead. His skin is hot against hers, leaving a trail of warmth where his fingers glide over her skin. She gasps again in pleasure at his touch, and the hand not working at her clit slides up, cupping one of her breasts.

                        “The important thing is, I am no more watched than any other fool with a title. Less, in some ways—I’ve taken _great_ care to ensure nothing suspicious ever arises in my Bannorn—though I don’t keep entirely quiet either.”

            “Silence is as loud as a rabble, eh?” Vardonis chuckles. “Wise of you. Though it must grow _awfully_ dull, keeping such a low profile…” Trevelyan’s face is still turned, the fabric of Solas’ robe and the dark fabric of the couch all she can make out. She can’t gauge Urathus’ reaction, but his silence seems to indicate more reluctance than his partner in regards to any sort of deal.

            But, _fuck_ , Solas is doing something with his hand between her legs again, and she loses focus.

            “Well,” he says, the words low and deep. “Things could be far worse.” He moves his fingers again, every touch sending tingling spasms from her skin deep inside her flesh. This time, her moan is closer to a wail, high and keening as she grinds her hips forward, trying to press harder against his skin. He pulls back slightly, keeping his touch light and teasing. “I’ve found plenty of ways to occupy my time.” The part of her brain that hasn’t been entirely undone by pleasure finally registers that it’s not just his fingers beneath her causing these sensations. He withdraws slightly and traces across her thigh, leaving not just warmth in his wake, but _sparks_. He’s using magic with a finesse she didn’t realize was possible, not enough to hurt here, merely enough to heighten her senses. The thumb of his other hand rubs gently against her nipple, his fingertips suddenly as cold as ice. She inhales sharply at the chill, her nipple stiffening to a firm point as he delicately tweaks it. She shudders involuntarily, her nerves inundated by the conflicting sensory input.

            She forces her head forward again, tilted low so that her now half-tangled hair hides her eyes from the group. Vardonis is still pounding himself up and into the sex slave on his lap, her own moans of pleasure clearly audible, if not so violent as Trevelyans own. But the magister stares at Solas’ hands on her as he thrusts, his line of inquiry abandoned in favor of carnal pleasure for now.

            Urathus, on the other hand, watches with mild interest but no noticeable arousal, contrary to when she knelt on the floor in pretend degradation. But she only gets a brief glimpse of either, before her attention is drawn down and fixed to where Solas’ long, nimble fingers finally make their way back up to where her legs meet again. His fingers crackle with a faint purple light, the electricity less strong than even a static shock from a doorknob, but so much more irresistible in its slow persistence. The hand at her breast releases, his icy nails tracing up and down her side and leaving gooseflesh in their wake, while lower, his fingers press against and finally enter her with excruciating slowness.

            His touch is nearly overwhelming, as she watches his first two fingers leisurely delve into her and retreat. Her thighs and calves clench and twitch spasmodically, and on either side of her naked ass she can feel his own legs flex against her, keeping her spread apart for the others to watch. She doesn’t care, not as long as _she_ can watch this too; his casual display of power more intensely erotic than she’d ever realized. She was never going to be able to fuck a non-mage again, Trevelyan realizes. Not like _this_ , anyway.

            His hand sliding over and around her torso skims its way up over her shoulder, the coldness of his skin fading as it rises. His thumb settles onto the back of her neck, his fingers splayed from her collarbone up to wrap partway around the base of her throat. The tip of his forefinger just curls over the edge of the jeweled collar, as though to remind her that she still wears it. He does not squeeze or choke her, but he heavy weight of his hand settles against her skin, holding her in place. She tilts her head back instinctively at his touch, baring her throat, the crown of her skull pressed into the cushions behind the gap between his shoulder and his chin. How is he still that much taller than her, sitting down?

            “So. You have land, privacy, and an interest in Tevinter,” Urathus finally speaks. “And now you’re looking for business partners.”

            “Strictly blow-table operations,” Solas replies mildly, shocking Trevelyan momentarily out of her reverie with his bluntness. “Plausibly deniable passage and holding is all I am willing to offer at the moment. I value my status and privacy, Sers. Even if I do rather like the way things are going here, I am not willing to risk my own stability. You understand, of course.” His thumb, which had been resting against her thigh as his now soaking wet fingers slide into and out of her, pushes aside the folds of her labia to begin slow, gentle circles around her clit. Tiny sparks follow he path of his flesh, gradually building as he concentrates on just the one small area. The electricity on the fingers inside her increases, and Trevelyan whimpers, biting her lip to keep herself under some last semblance of control. She squeezes her fists tightly, gripping the loose folds of fabric from his robe that now lie draped over the couch.

            Vardonis grunts too brutishly to be a reply, then again, louder. His noises grow in enthusiasm with the frantic slapping of flesh that must mean he’s near to climax, and beneath the volume Solas tilts his head down, his lips pressed just above her ear.

            “You’re enjoying this,” he whispers, the hot air of his breath ticking her skin. “Watching you is… _exquisite_.”

            His words are too quiet for this to be a show for the other men; this is him, not breaking character, but letting something real slip through again.

            “Yes,” she gasps breathlessly, unable to find the words to say more. Her eyelids flutter closed as the pressure and speed of his stroking finally increases, and she feels release finally, _finally_ beginning to build. Something hard presses between them, and she realizes he’s erect again, his cock pushed up against her back. She can’t help herself, leaning back into it, lifting her body up and down in the minute range of motion she can achieve while still hold in place between his hands and legs.

            Vardonis exhales noisily across from her, his satisfaction plain in the sound. It only drives on her frustration, to her him achieve so easily what she’s been waiting all night for. But Solas laughs as she rubs her ass against his dick even harder than before, failing to entice him into entering her the way she truly wants. The soft rumble of his chest buzzing against her back makes her moan again, unable to contain her own lust. Trevelyan doesn’t care; he already knows how attracted to him she is now. She can’t say what will happen once they leave here, and she can’t bring herself to care about their mission any longer. This is probably the only chance she’ll ever have to have sex with him, if that damned distant mask of his goes back on once they get back to Skyhold.

            “Why this way?” Urathus asks, drawing the conversation back to the topic of smuggling. “Surely you could have found a much more respectable method of spending time here, if that truly is your desire. Petition your way up to a better title through diplomatic visits, or such.”

            “Oh, come now,” Vardonis interrupts. “Don’t question our luck; with this Bann of ours arriving just when we might make use of him.”

            Solas’ hands still for a moment as the men converse, and Trevelyan presses against him with a whimper as the growing climax falters, halted.

            “Don’t stop,” she gasps, not caring if the men hear her plea. “Maker, _please_ —”

            His fingers grip her again, harder than before, and her fluttering sigh of relief and pleasure is louder still. Her hands have remained clenched in the loose fabric of his garments, but she grasps for _him_ now, one hand curling over her head behind his neck, the opposite gripping the thigh pressing against one of her legs.

            “Come now, Vardonis,” Urathus _tuts_. “It seems reasonable to question his methods. _Everyone_ wants _something_ , and a deal like this seems too good to be true.”

            Vardonis _hums_ in consideration, and under the brief pause, Solas’ lips brush against her temple again.

            “And what do you want, pet?” he murmurs against her skin.

            “ _You_ ,” Trevelyan groans. “ _Fuck_ , please don’t stop, So—” the hand at her neck flies to clamp shut over her mouth before she can scream his name, stifling her wail as she nearly destroys their cover.

            “Well then, tell us,” Urathus commands, resuming his questioning before Solas can reply. “How do you propose to gain more power in Ferelden through secret dealings here?”

            Solas laughs, openly condescending. “My mistake, I thought we understood each other, Sers,” he says. “I do not care about _power_.” She has regained some of her control, now, at least enough not to shout his name into a room filled with enemies who doubtless have heard about all the members of the Inquisition by this point. His fingers loosen, and then release her to join his other hand between her thighs. Her heart is pounding now, loud and rapid behind her breastbone. “Power is a blunt and ugly tool.”

            Her eyelids flutter open only long enough to see Urathus and Vardonis watching his hands on her, half as intoxicated as she by his spell. She turns and presses her face into Solas’ neck instead, her lips pressed against the heat of the skin just below his jaw. The fingers inside her withdraw, focusing only on her clit now, and leaving a throbbing sense of absence in their wake.

            “It’s why mages in my homeland end up in Circles, or dead. Power is useless,” Solas continues. Trevelyan opens her mouth as another building wave of pleasure threatens to overwhelm her, muffling her wail of pain into his skin, biting down on his neck as she rides through it. It’s not enough. Other curious members of the club glance over at their group as she half-shrieks in pleasure. She’s so close, she can hardly stand it, but his hands are relentless. His fingers rub just enough to keep her on the edge of climax, his other hand pushing against her stomach so she can’t buck harder into them and draw the orgasm herself.

            “That is, useless without the skill to properly wield it. A deft hand can do _far_ more than a clumsy one. No, power itself holds nothing for me. What I prefer is _control_.”


	6. Chapter 6

            With an almost casual gesture, his fingers finally increase in pace and pressure, sending her over the edge. Sparks jolt through her skin as she clenches and shudders, bucking and flexing in his lap. Her bared breasts heave as she gasps, unable to contain herself any longer as the orgasm finally breaks down whatever filters she’d had left.

            “Oh Maker, yes, _yes_ —“ she pants, his fingers still working. “I’ve waited so long—don’t stop, _please_.” His breath is against her ear again as she throws her head back, whimpering in ecstasy, but he says nothing. “I can’t take it, just _fuck_ me already, I want—”

            Abruptly, he releases her, and roughly pushes her forward and onto her hands knees on the hard floor. Her clitoris still throbbing with aftershocks, he spreads her thighs apart with a knee, kneeling behind her before she has time to fully realize what’s happening. His cock is still hard and throbbing, warm as its length presses against her ass. She moans, rocking backwards to slide against it, still shaking from her last release but nonetheless filled with a searing and unmistakable desire.

            Vardonis laughs, watching her transparent lust with a sardonic grin. “Not so innocent after all, it seems!”

            “Oh, she was before I got to her,” Solas replies. “But you know how things are. What’s simple pleasure, compared to hearing someone _beg_ you for it?”

            “Mmm,” Urathus murmurs in appreciation. “A man of art, then.”

            Solas says something else, not to her, so it isn’t important. His hands press down against her back, and he trails his nails up her spine as he reaches forward with one hand to grasp the collar still around her neck. His fingertips slip behind the top edge, tugging it up firmly against her neck. It doesn’t cut off her air or blood flow, but she has to throw her head back to ease the tightness, which is harder than his hand had been around her throat minutes earlier. His other palm slides around to the front of her waist, and he tugs her backward, beginning a slow rhythm with his hips, all while seemingly ignoring her. She has to reach between her legs to grab him, fumbling to guide his cock inside her as he already moves.

            His first full thrust is long and slow, entering her almost completely in one smooth motion. She leans into it, relishing in the sense of fullness as he finally enters her. He pulls back before she can savor the moment, but his next push sends him even deeper, despite her tightness around him, and before she realizes it, she’s groaning aloud again.

            Urathus says something back to him, inaudible to her over her short barking grunts as Solas drives into her in earnest, fucking her with enough force to rock her forward each time. He does not tease the way he did as he fingered her; in fact, he seems almost distracted as he works, still talking to the magisters as though nothing at all was out of the ordinary about their situation. His hand on her hip squeezes forcefully enough to bruise, however, as he unremittingly takes her from behind.

            She strains against him as she searches for the pleasure she know must be there, pushing first back, then forward, until finally she lowers herself to her elbows, head and back still arched high, and now with every push his cock moves inside her _just so_.

            “—Orlais? Certainly. I have had dealings with a few trusted nobles for _years_ now.” Solas is saying above her. “Oh, I’d trust them immensely—where do you think I picked up _this_ particular specimen, hm? _Fine_ work—”

            Warmth begins to bud inside her again, even as his powerful thrusting pushes her to the very limit of what she can take. She aches with the size of him, stretching her farther than she is accustomed too, and plunging deeper. But she’s been wet nearly since they arrived, her prolonged arousal lubricating the motions.

            “Yes, _finally_ ,” Trevelyan babbles, her words punctuated with short cries of pleasure. “—don’t you dare fucking stop, I’ve been waiting for so long, just— _Maker_ —” Her words transform into a shuddering high-pitched howl as the heat inside her spreads, her arms and legs shaking under his onslaught. She hopes no one has noticed the steady deterioration of her face accent, and pushes herself closer to him, trying to keep up with his vigorous rhythm. The thumb of his hand around her hip rubs back and forth across her spine, encouragingly.

            “Our goods may be, ah, _unusual_ , but our market is superb,” Urathus waxes to Solas, smiling winningly. “We’re the _only_ supplier around at present, and demand is like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

            She can barely match his pace, but she might as well not be bothering, for all he seems to care. His movements are insistent; precise. Whether she is there to meet them or not.

            “— _damn_ you, I can’t believe you held back for so long, I want you inside me every goddamn night, you bastard—“ The words spill out of her mouth, unbidden and unstoppable. She has no doubt they all can hear them, and she _wants_ him too, wants Solas to know just how hard she’s lusted after him all this time. And even if he didn’t feel the same way before, he sure as _fuck_ has been taking advantage of the situation now. And she’s going to do her best to make sure he takes advantage of her again and again after they get back to Skyhold. “—I’ve never had anything like this before, don’t— _yes,_ yes, _there_ —I’ll do anything you want, Master, just keep— _Ah!_ ”

            Her pleas don’t seem to matter, except that the hand on her hip grips even tighter.

            “Once it arrives, it should only take a few days to make the preparations to distribute it further. If you’d like, you could come to oversee yourselves, scheule permitting,” Solas replies calmly to some unheard question from Vardonis.

            Another wave of heat surges through Trevelyan, climax building again, deeper and faster than before. “Yes, yes, _yes,_ ” she pants. “I can’t—fuck, I’m g-going, going to—“

            Solas increases his pace just before she comes, slamming into her harder and faster even than before. Her wail at its culmination is more a scream than a moan, echoing through the room. Hot fire pulses through her in waves as the orgasm spreads pleasure through her abdomen, her shriek followed by deep gasps of relief. She squeezes herself around his slowing cock, drawing out every moment of pleasure she can before it begins to fade.

            Her limbs are trembling too violently to support her anymore, and as Solas releases his hold on her collar, she sinks her upper body to the floor in exhaustion. He slides his still-hard cock out from inside her, leaving a sense of emptiness behind, despite her sore flesh. He still hasn’t come, and he doesn’t bother tucking himself away or relacing his trousers as he finishes negotiations with the two magisters. Trevelyan can’t do anything but lay in a soaking, sweaty heap on the marble tiles, waiting naked beneath the men as they converse. She’s not sure how long it takes them to settle things, but it is several minutes at least before her ragged gasps finally settle into some semblance of normal breathing.

            The garments she’d come in are a mess, the breastband having come completely undone and falling away at some point without her notice; and one of the strange thigh sleeves has fallen down to her ankle while the other remains partway up her knee, the top inner edges of both soaking wet from both sweat and the fluids of her arousal. The skirt thing is somewhat intact, the front rectangle is torn from where she knelt on it, but might cover her somewhat on the way out. She has no idea what it must look like from behind. The nerves in her legs and ass are too overstimulated for her to tell without being able to see. It takes her another few minutes to work through this assessment, and by the end of it, the men have stood to shake hands with Solas, some sort of agreement clearly having been reached.

            She feels a pang at that, the undoubtable signal that the night is over. Their charade will end, soon, and they will go back to Skyhold, and their normal lives—or as normal as things get in the Inquisition. Except she won’t be satisfied by any of the sex she might be able to get there ever again, not after the way things have gone here. Solas will return to his aloof and somewhat distant self, and she’ll have nothing but the memories and her hands to try to relive them every night after this.

            “A toast, then, to our new business partner,” Vardonis proclaims. The other woman jump to refill wine glasses as the men settle back into their seats. Solas gives a sharp tug on the chain on her collar, and Trevelyan makes a last heroic effort to crawl the few steps to the end table. Her hands shake as she pours into the goblet, but mercifully do not slosh any of the dark liquid out of the cup. Carefully, she shuffles over to offer it to Solas, who takes it without looking at her and raises it in reply to the other men. She leans between his knees, her back to the others, trying to compose herself while he drinks deeply.

            “Good, pet,” he tells her absently, still nodding at the magisters. “Prepare us for departure.”

            Trevelyan reaches up and tugs the sides of his robes straight, the fabric parting to reveal his erect cock still exposed in his lap, a loud signal to the others of the control he so recently had professed his desire for. Hands trembling, she pushes it back into his breeches, fighting the urge to beg him to fuck her again before they go, or at least to let her suck him off first. Instead, she redoes the laces over him, and fastens the silk robe into place below the fur pelt still slung across his chest and shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the nyquil is kicking in so the last part will go up tomorrow or sometime if i dont delete this whole work in a fit of shame in the morning instead ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> EDIT: OK... y'all have convinced me... no deleting for now. but i keep having flashbacks to my own mother finding and following my (sfw but personal) twitter out of nowhere once so now i Live In Fear ok. so in a few weeks/months this might get changed to visible to registered users only but it'll stay up in some capacity.


	7. Chapter 7

            “You simply _must_ come visit again, after we get our little affair in order,” Vardonis gushes. “Just _wait_ until you see what a _real_ celebration here looks like.”

            “Indeed,” Urathus agrees. “You’ll have to bring your toy again, as well. Perhaps we can share…”

            “I’m sorry,” Solas tells them, stroking Trevelyan’s hair as she kneels before him, head still bowed in exhaustion. “But I think I’m going to keep this one just for myself. She is ever so _willing_. But, please—I have _much_ more hospitality I can offer you when you visit with the first shipment.”

            “A pity,” Vardonis complains. “But perhaps we can convince you another time. I’ve never seen a slave beg _quite_ so vocally here before.”

            She doesn’t have to fake the glazed look in her eyes as she tilts her head to stare up at Solas, still faintly breathless from all the exertion. He barely seems winded, but the tightness in the creases around his eyes is back. _Possessiveness_ , she finally recognizes. He doesn’t want them to touch her, either, and not just because she’s secretly the Inquisitor.

            “Come, pet,” he says, tugging the chain suddenly enough to distract her out of that particular line of thought, and Trevelyan obediently staggers to her feet and stumbles after him. Her legs tremble, her clothing still a wreck.

            “I’ll have my servants be in touch to sort out the details. Under some plausible cover story, of course.”

            “Absolutely,” Urathus agrees. “My slaves will keep an eye out for your correspondence.”

            Solas gives a shallow nod, rather than a full bow, somehow implying that his false status is only a hair below that of the magisters, despite his cover as a simple Bann of only a small parcel of land. Then, with a swirl of his cloak and no second glance at her, he turns and strides from the room.

            She rushes to keep up with his long paces, avoiding the hungry gaze of the Tevinter men who pause to stare at her as she passes. Her hair has fallen over her shoulders to half-obscure her breasts, but she may as well be totally naked for the way their eyes slide across her skin. And then, with a few more steps, they exit the room and are back in the shallow, sloping tunnel of a hallway that curls around the outside of the room, leading back up to the surface.

            Back into their normal roles. She takes a deep breath once they are within the dim safety of the hallway, out of sight and alone. Her whole life feels unsteady, not just her legs, and gathering up the threads of who she will very shortly be expected to be again seems almost impossible in this strange and unusual place. Solas slows his stride, now that they are alone, and she catches up to his side rather than trailing behind, thinking he means to—she doesn’t know what. Say something, after all that? Could he possibly intend to go back to pretending everything was the same as when they’d left the carriage and entered this building?

            Trevelyan opens her mouth, although she hasn’t planned what exactly to say, but he grabs her by the shoulder before any words can leave her lips, spinning her to so that her back is to him. She inhales, startled, as she lurches forward, nearly falling before throwing out her hands to brace herself against the cold stone of the wall.

            “What—” she begins to ask, but then he is so _close_ behind her, the length of his body pressed against her back. His hands move over her again, now, not with the slow steadiness of before, but grabbing her as though he can’t enough. His right hand finds her hip—just where he’d been gripping her earlier, the flesh still red and tender—and he pulls her tighter against himself. His cock, as hard as when he’d pulled out of her, presses against her back through the rich silk robe.

            “Solas—” She gasps, and his name tastes like relief as it falls off her tongue, finally an admission that this is _him_ , _them_ , not the false roles they’ve been playing all evening. “What are you—?”

            “That was for _them_ ,” he says as his lips find the side of her neck, working their way across her skin. His voice is rough, unsteady—completely unlike that of the cold, collected human he had been playing inside. One of his hands reaches up past her shoulder, brushing her hair aside as with a tug, he undoes the catch on the collar and it clatters to the floor with a loud _clang_. “— _this_ is for me.”

            His other hand is at the small of her back now—no, it merely brushes her there as he fumbles to undo his robe and the lacing of his breeches. She suddenly understands, and her heart stutters at the realization.

            “Yes,” she tells him, nearly breathless, as his the front of his robe falls open again, and his hot skin meets hers. “Do it.”

            The hand on her shoulder trails up her arm, still thrown out to catch her weight, and his hand covers hers, his large palm trapping her wrist and fingers against the wall. His other hand finishes it’s fumbling, and she feels him press between her legs, his tip still wet with the contained arousal he demonstrated before the magisters. She arches her back as he guides himself to her opening, and groans as he slides inside, much slower than he had the first time, as though he is savoring the sensation. She has to arch her feet, balancing on her toes and bending forward slightly to make up for their difference in height, as he draws back with a shuddering exhale.

            His rhythm at first is slow; not the torturous teasing like when he fingered her, but something deeper and more luxurious. The hand not pinning her to the wall continues its steady exploration of her skin through the long, slow thrusts; first squeezing her ass, now trailing up her side and cupping her breast, now sliding down to press his palm against the flat of her stomach.

            And, _oh_ , she thought she’d liked him when he was all mockery and casual gestures and simply using her, but _this_ is something else entirely. It is so very apparent that there is no other thought in his mind that isn’t to do with _her_. No half-smile of concentration as he focuses on the magisters; no ignoring her except to turn her into a spectacle to keep the other men from asking too many questions. He had been turned on then, yes but _this_ is—she doesn’t know what it is, but the feeling is dark as soil and as smooth as velvet. Where before she felt a burning fire, she now feels a deep and inevitable smolder, like the magma constantly lurking under the crust of the Earth, too formidable to ever be quenched now that it has erupted—and it is intoxicating.

            His head is bent, face half-buried in her hair as his forehead presses against the back of her own head, his breath hot on the nape of her neck. The pumping of his hips has increased. Both of Trevelyan’s hands are still braced against the wall, absorbing the force of each upward push. He makes a noise, deep in his throat, something between a growl and a groan. She can’t help but answer; parting her lips so that the cry she’s been biting back all night can slip through.

            “Solas,” she says, relishing the way his name feels in her mouth. Her voice is low, too low to carry back down the hall for anyone to hear, although that is the farthest thing from her mind right now. Gone are the begging pleas from earlier for him to fuck her, or the half-aware babble when he took her on all fours. She doesn’t have room for those thoughts now, and her panting is only that repetition of his name, “—Solas, Solas, _Solas_ —“ as their pace moves from this slow sweetness into something considerably more reckless and wild.

            His fingers wrap around the front of her thigh, gripping tightly and pulling her up and over his hip, angling his body so that each push drives him even deeper. He is saying something, grunting it into her hair, but she can’t hear him over her own cries. Her other foot barely touches the ground now, her weight balanced precariously as his lips meet the skin of her shoulder again, and then his teeth.

            Trevelyan throws her head back, stretching the skin of her bared neck to him as his mouth moves closer to her throat, not just kissing, but biting. He doesn’t come close to breaking her skin, but each press of his teeth sends a shiver down her spine, any pain overpowered by the arousal created at the sharp pressure. The words he hisses out between deep breaths are none she recognizes; but the ancient language of his people, alien to her, slides from his lips and into her like silk. Somehow, she doesn’t think that his words are necessarily even for her. Whatever this thing between them now is, it’s not so much an emotional connection as pure physicality, the culmination of long withheld carnal urges—and there is a delicious sweetness in knowing that she can bring him to this, just with press of her own body.

            She exhales again, his name a slow, drawn-out wail on her tongue before she once more loses all words. He is fast, now, all earlier care abandoned as he finally permits himself to drop his role and _be_ with her. He does not hold back from the pleasure, drawing it out for himself rather than her, although _oh_ , Maker, she’s so close again—

            Trevelyan pulls the hand he does not hold in place from the wall, sliding it between her legs, higher than where his flesh joins her, and _yes_ , _there—_

His teeth dig into the place where her neck and shoulder join, undoubtedly bruising the thin skin just above her back. His mouth is a wet heat on her skin, but the sensation is eclipsed by the stuttering rhythm of his hips as he drives into her, shaking, on the edge of release. She pushes herself as well, moving her fingers faster as he thrusts once, twice, again—

            His breath catches, holding for a moment as his body shudders against her back, releasing both his hands to pull her torso tight against his own, pressing her hips back tighter onto his. Her free hand is clamped between one of his arms and the bottom of her own stomach, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s there too, just in time. It isn’t as intense as her first two orgasms—not now that he’s not focusing solely on her pleasure—but she can hardly complain, not with the giddy rush she feels now at knowing she’s again brought him the same satisfaction, after he’d held out for so long. Her voice is an unintelligible muffled cry as he comes inside her, the last faltering gyrations of his hips leaving her feeling warm and wet.

            He stays still, for a moment, finally exhaling a long-held breath all in one great rush. When he does pull out, the smallest of gaps between their skin, she feels his cum spill out as his cock withdraws, sliding down the insides of her thighs. Her legs are shaking again, both from the orgasm and from holding herself up during the sex. Trevelyan leans forward against the wall, fighting to keep her balance as her heaving breaths begin to fade back into a normal rhythm. The movement pulls her away from Solas, however, and now that there is space between them and her brain is catching back up with the actions of her body, a creeping tendril of doubt unfurls in her chest. She’s not sure how he’s going to react to this, or how they’re possibly going to keep working together if this—if whatever this is—

            Warm cloth slides over her shoulders, the silk robe billowing slightly as it falls down over her skin. The texture is almost impossibly smooth against her nakedness.

            “Here,” Solas says, draping the robe over her shoulders. He stands bare-chested, his skin standing out stark and pale above his dark breeches. He still wears the layered necklaces, and as she pulls her arms into the wide sleeves, he presses one of the sparkling jewels between his fingers, a shiver of flame bursting between his fingertips as he does so. The jewel glows briefly with a brilliance that can’t come from reflected sparks alone, before fading back into opaque dimness.

            “The carriage will be here in just a minute,” he says, not looking at her.

            “Solas,” she begins to say, and immediately wishes she’d chosen any other word than the one she’d just been moaning as they’d fucked. “Ah, I—”

            “It was—ill advised,” he interrupts, staring down the hall and running the thin gold chain between his fingers. His hand flexes, then curls closed again, as though he is searching for his usual jawbone pendant to fiddle with. “I did not think—I shouldn’t have taken advantage of this. Of you.”

            “No, that’s not—I mean, it’s nothing I didn’t tell you to do, and clearly I was _enjoying_ it—” Oh, hell, this sentence is not going the way she intended it to. And ‘enjoying’ isn’t exactly the right word choice, but—

            Solas exhales a single surprised _Hah_ of amusement, and Trevelyan raises a hand to instinctively hide a grin. The torchlight flickers, his expression hard to see in the shifting light, and a chorus of laughter echoes down the hallway from the room they’d been inside. It dawns on her that at any moment, someone could come through the hall again, from either direction.

            “Later,” she says, pulling herself back into their present situation with an immeasurable effort. “We can’t get caught, not before the shipments are finalized.”

            “Yes,” he says, some of the usual formality and distance returned to his voice. She half-regrets that, but there’s no more time. Leliana’s people will be here any moment.

            They walk down the rest of the hall, Trevelyan anxiously trying to match Solas’ calm and stately pace. It is a struggle for her to remain silent, her mind roaring with a hundred jumbled thoughts she wouldn’t know how to begin to explain anyway. She falls behind him by a pace as they reach the entrance, still guarded by two men Trevelyan isn’t sure if she should recognize or not. She’s unclear on just how deep her Spymaster’s infiltration had gotten before adding her and Solas into the plan. Just as they cross the threshold, a familiar dark carriage pulls up, halting just at the edge of the short walkway.

            The air is much colder now that all traces of the day’s warmth have faded from the evening air, and Trevelyan is grateful for the robe’s heat as well as how it hides just how much her appearance has deteriorated through the night. She probably doesn’t have even half the fabric left that she walked in with.

            The driver leaps down to open the door as Solas saunters up to it, climbing into the dark interior without a second glance back. Trevelyan follows more awkwardly, trying to keep the large swaths of fabric from tangling or parting as she clambers inside and drops, heavily, onto the bench seat. As she does, a tension that hasn’t left her since she agreed to the plan weeks ago finally dissolves inside her chest, flooding her partially with relief but mostly with exhaustion.

            “How did it go?” asks a worried, lilting voice from a hooded figure across from them, and Trevelyan jumps in surprise just as the door swings shut.

            “Leliana!” she gasps. “I thought you were still at Skyhold—I didn’t realize you’d be here yourself—” she begins to babble, suddenly _extremely_ grateful that the other woman can’t see just how degenerate she must look. At least the shadows will hopefully hide the absolute ruin that has become of her carefully painted and plaited makeup and hair, and the robe keeps secret her missing garments, the fresh-blossoming bruises at her neck, and the remains of Solas’ drying seed still sticking to her skin. As she talks, the carriage lurches into motion, pulling them away from the magister’s lair and back towards the safety of her Keep.

            “I thought an operation this delicate was best managed from as close as possible,” Leliana allows. “Well?”

            “We were successful,” Solas says, his voice nearly as tired as she feels. “I—or should I say, the Bann, probably you—will send a letter with specifications for transport of the shipment. I recommend setting it up as soon as possible.”

            “Thank the Maker,” Leliana breathes in relief, her shadowed shoulders slumping in relaxation Trevelyan can see even in the dark. “What about you?” She asks the Inquisitor. Light beams flicker through the carriage windows, reflecting in the Spymaster’s eyes as she leans forward to peer at her.

            “It was fine,” Trevelyan deflects. “Just acting. Mostly, I’m just very tired.” She fervently hopes that neither of them can see the blush doubtlessly coloring her face as she lies.

            “Would you like to sleep?” Solas asks, softly.

            Right now, Trevleyan mostly just wants to evade Leliana’s questioning as quickly as possible. Her emotions are too jumbled up to produce a coherent version of events for the lady, preferably one that downplays just how much actually went on inside. So, “Yes,” she replies to Solas, gratefully.

            The skilled Dreamer leans over, pressing one hand against her forehead. There is a prickling sensation against her skin—magic, not just her own nerves—followed by a wave of calm lethargy that sweeps over her limbs and right into her core.

            Without any hesitation, Trevelyan succumbs to the rising darkness, and sleeps.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand that's that! i dont know what to write here. thanks for accompanying me on this wildly kinky ride? let's pretend it doesn't sound weird and go with that


End file.
